The God Complex
by PhoenixFlame123
Summary: You never know what will be in your room until you see it. / NOT a crossover, but based off of the premise of Doctor Who's "The God Complex", explanation inside. / Johnlock. Oneshot. T for violence.
1. Sherlock's Room

_ ~By the way, this is meant to be written Post-Reichenbach, Post-Reunion.~_

_ This is a short, out-of-context one-shot based on the Doctor Who episode "The God Complex", but it's NOT a crossover and you don't need to know anything about DW to read this._

_ If you don't know the premise of "The God Complex", the basic plot is that there is a room in a hotel that holds every person's deepest fear. It's somehow able to see into your soul and find what you absolutely fear the most, basically, and when you find your room it draws you in and you're forced to confront your deepest fear. I think it's a very psychologically interesting idea and wanted to explore it as if Sherlock and John are in the same situation._

_ That's enough from me now, enjoy :)_

_**~Phoenix**_

**-oOo-**

"John? _John!"_ Sherlock huffed in frustration, running his fingers through his hair as he spun about in the narrow hallway. He had been stalking through the endless labyrinth of hallways for a while now, ranting his theories to John, who he had assumed was right behind him. Now, as he ran through it in his head, he realized John's affirmational grunts had ceased halfway through his rambling. He rubbed his face and groaned. These hallways had a tendency to blur together, and it would be ages before he could find his friend again.

Sherlock looked to the left and right before deciding on the latter direction, striding off with his hands shoved into his pockets. This case was confusing him, to say the least, and the fact that he couldn't find his way out of this hotel and that their phones had stopped working only made him more nervous.

He didn't quite believe what the strange woman who had sent them there had told him. The idea that every person's deepest fears could be contained in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere made little to no sense. He assumed it was the work of some twisted psychopath, someone who picked a target and found their fear by stalking before luring them to the hotel room. Every room he had looked in was filled, however, with varying forms of creatures that could frighten people; clowns and aliens and monsters-under-the-beds that did little to frighten Sherlock, but could do some serious damage to someone with a phobia.

Even with that in mind, Sherlock was still slightly anxious about the idea of _his_ room. It was complete idiocy, he knew, and probably didn't exist in the first place, but the theory of facing his deepest fear - whatever that might be - chilled him.

It was probably something tedious, anyways, like Moriarty - and that made him chuckle, considering he knew Moriarty and his whole web of assassins had been killed months ago. But the thought still made him fidget uncomfortably.

"John?" he called again, bringing himself back into reality. "John, where did you go?"

His footsteps were the singular pair, however, as he strolled down the dimming hallway. Cheap flowered wallpaper hung, peeling, from the wall, only adding to the creep atmosphere in the corridor. "_Jaaaaaawn."_

Now this was getting tedious. Sherlock was bored. He shuffled, his stride getting less urgent, and yawned widely. "Jaaaww-"

He stopped, cold-still, and his whole world seemed to swim out of focus. His heartbeat pounded brutally in his ears as one door loomed into view, his vision focusing on the singular wooden frame.

Sherlock approached slowly, breathing quickly. His slender fingers fell lightly on the cold metal doorknob, gaze flickering over the number engraved in gold in the smooth oak wood.

_221_

His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly.

His room.

And logic denied it and his brain screamed against it, but he knew it to be true.

His room.

Sherlock didn't want to open it, didn't want to see, but he knew he had to - had to put his mind to rest once and for all -

Before his better judgement could decide against it, a loud, piercing scream echoed from inside the room, and a bolt of pure, cold fear struck through his heart because _he knew that voice _and he swung the door open.

It was dark. Walls of black and a seemingly nonexistent ceiling, but he didn't notice that, didn't try to comprehend any of that, because the only thing he could see was _him. _The man in the middle of the room.

But unlike he had thought, it wasn't Moriarty or any number of his assassins staring him in the eye - it wasn't any of the enemies he had ever faced who was staring back at him.

It was John.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his mind racing, trying to understand, "John, what are you doing in h -"

"Sherlock," John interrupted him hoarsely, his chest rising and falling in a rapid panic, "Sherlock, please - help me -"

Sherlock tried to move forward but found himself paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch as John's eyes grew wider and frightened. "John, just - get out of there! What are y-"

"Sherlock, help! Help me!" John's voice was rising into a frenzied scream, and suddenly his body twisted, as if in great pain. "_SHERLOCK! PLEASE!"_

"_John!" _Sherlock felt pure fear ripping through his veins and he struggled fiercely to get free, trying to get to him -

A gunshot blasted through the air, and John's body jerked violently with impact. The doctor stopped moving, mouth open and tears streaming down his face, as a dark stain seeped through his shirt, leaking from his stomach. He gasped for air. "Sher-"

Another shot, and another, ripping through him violently each time, finally driving John to his knees. And even as he bled out onto the ground, his chest rattling with each desperate gasp, John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. "Sh... Sherlock..."

"John," Sherlock whispered hoarsely, his heart stopping cold, "Please, no -"

One last roaring bullet and John finally crashed to the ground, his body stilled.

Now Sherlock found he could move, and he fell to his knees next to the body of his friend - his best, his only, dearest friend -

"John, please," he whispered, voice strangled, "Stay with me, I'm going to get you out of here -" He rolled John onto his back, horrified at the sickening amount of blood pouring from his shallowly gasping friend's chest. "I need to stop the bleeding -"

John's eyes opened, flickering about, unfocused. Sherlock grabbed his face and made John look at him. "Hey," he said, his voice cracking, "Stay with me, John, stay with me -"

John's eyes flashed with recognition, and then slowly began to smolder with deep, deep hatred. "You -" he whispered, "You - you didn't save -" he coughed raggedly, "- you - didn't save me. _You didn't save me._"

Sherlock's heart was ripping in half and he vaguely realized that tears were flowing openly down his cheeks. "John, I'm sorry, I tried - John, I tried so hard -"

"_You - didn't - save - me," _John punctuated. He gasped one last time, gathering enough strength to hiss one last word.

"_Freak._"

Then his head thudded with dead weight against the floor and his breath stilled, his face still frozen in an expression of hatred.

Sherlock didn't move for a second before his whole body was overcome with crippling anguish. He curled into a tight ball as guilt and anger and unimaginable grief ripped through him, feeling a scream tear itself from his throat as John lay dead before him -

He needed to get out -

He felt himself staggering away from the bloody body into that blasted, evil hallway, heaving air into unwilling lungs, his back impacting with the cursed flowering wallpaper, everything quiet and normal and not acknowledging the fact that _the most important person had just died - _

_ - and he thought Sherlock was a freak - _

Another wail ripped from his throat and he fell to his knees, sobbing openly, but John was still there - and _John was still dead - and -_

"No... please... God, no..." He sobbed brokenly, his mind rapidly failing, shutting down, unable to _deduce _anything other than the broken body on the ground - the broken body who was his only, best friend - the broken body he had loved so dearly -

- the broken body who had hated him -

"John," he choked wretchedly, head held in his heads, "John, I'm sorry - I'm so, so sorry -"

And there was a hand on his shoulder, a face leaning down to look at him, and - "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's going on?"

Sherlock pulled away in fear, crying out, because someone else was here, someone else to kill him, someone who -

"Sherlock, dear God, what happened?"

But _he knew that voice._

And he blinked away the tears, forcing his gaze to focus on the man kneeling in front of him, with that stupid oatmeal jumper on, with a stupid concerned look on his face and

it was John

and nothing else mattered and he was alive

Sherlock threw himself on John, holding onto him desperately, clinging to him like a lifeline. His tears were still flowing freely as he sobbed into John's shoulder, who was obviously taken aback; after a second, however, he felt the older man's arms enclose him gently, pulling him closer. Sherlock gasped for breath through John's shoulder.

"I thought - the room - I thought you were-"

"Shh, it's okay," John whispered into Sherlock's ear soothingly, "It's okay, I'm here. Everything's fine."

Sherlock's breathing slowly started to calm, his heart returning to its regular rhythm, but he didn't let John go for an instant. He breathed him in, memorizing everything about him over and over again, and decided he was never, ever going to let him go.

"Tell me what happened," John was saying, taking Sherlock's chin gently in his hand and moving his face so they were looking at each other, faces very close together. Sherlock took a shaky breath.

"The - the room." He coughed weakly, struggling to maintain his composure even as his world had just crumbled around him seconds ago. "It was..." He trailed off, looking away - but he was far from feeling embarrassed, still too relieved that John was here, and living, and breathing, and he didn't hate him -

He felt John move, so he slumped backwards so he was against the wall again, rubbing his face as he felt himself slowly return to normalcy. His mind was still racing, though, imprinted with John bleeding - John dying - John hating him -

Sherlock heard John move the slightly opened door further, the doctor's breath catching slightly in his throat; he closed the door firmly and moved back next to Sherlock, who was still hiccuping, tears still leaking from his eyes. John sat next to Sherlock, taking a deep breath. Sherlock looked down.

"So, it was your room," John started gently.

Sherlock nodded silently.

"...and in it, I died."

Sherlock looked away because now John would laugh at him, call him a freak again, _didn't he have anything else in the world that he would be so upset over - _

But instead he felt a pair of arms wrap around him and pull him close, and Sherlock laid his head across John's chest as the the doctor stroked his hair soothingly. The movement was so touching that Sherlock felt tears spring to his eyes again, and he closed them, taking a shuddering breath.

"You didn't just die, you were murdered, and I couldn't save you; I tried, but I couldn't, and - and then -" Sherlock knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop, "You were dying and I couldn't save you, and you told me you hated me - you said I was a freak and you hated me and - I couldn't, John, I just couldn't bring myself to -"

"Shh," John said again, quieting him, his fingers still running through the younger man's hair. He was obviously affected by Sherlock's words. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I don't plan on dying anytime soon. And one thing's for certain, Sherlock." He paused.

Sherlock waited. He turned his head so that he was looking John straight in the face. "What's for certain?" he mumbled.

John looked down at him, and in his eyes Sherlock saw the exact opposite of everything he had seen in fake-John's dying eyes. "I will never, ever hate you," he murmured softly, resting his hand against Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock was overcome for a moment, and when he opened his mouth he heard himself say, "I love you, John."

John chuckled softly. He leaned closer and they were just a breath away - "I know."

He closed the distance between their lips and every memory of fake-John melted away, every worry about anything in the world was now a thing of the past, and all that mattered to Sherlock was that John was here, and John was alive, and

John loved him.

**-oOo-**

_Sorry if Sherlock seemed OOC. In all the situations John's ever been in danger in the past, however, he's always acted a little OOC, and it's interesting to think how he'd act if John actually died; as you can see, I lean towards to extreme side of things, especially in the scenario of when John rejects him at the last moment. If that doesn't do anything to explain it, I'm sorry. :)_

_ Please review and tell me what you think. Feedback makes my day. :D_

_ ~Phoenix_


	2. John's Room

_ /\/\/\/\_

_ Hello again! I had a couple people ask me to do the same thing but with John's room, and after thinking, I settled on this. Also, this is supposed to be happening simultaneously to the last chapter._

_ Remember, Post-Reich, post-reunion. :D_

_ Enjoy!_

_** ~Phoenix**_

**-oOo-**

"Sherlock? _Sherlock!" _John pressed his lips into a firm line, irritated as he ducked his head around another hallway corner. "Where the hell did he go?" he grumbled to himself, crossing his arms as he randomly chose another direction to aimlessly wander around.

He had been just behind him a moment ago, and, thinking he had heard something, had turned for just a second; when he returned his gaze to the front, Sherlock had disappeared, and John was alone and lost.

"Stupid bloody hotel," he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the weird shouts coming from one room to his left. The rooms around him were weird and filled with strange creatures that could easily be anyone's greatest fears, as had been suggested. None of them had quite frightened him, however. Childish things like the Bogeyman no longer served to scare him.

Although Sherlock had dismissed the thought of everyone's deepest fears being held inside these peeling wallpapered walls as foolish, John held a certain fascination with the idea. The idea of your soul being opened and being forced to face your greatest weakness was a subject of curious psychology, to say the least, and an interesting concept.

Sherlock, of course, had been more concerned with the who, why, and how - but John was content to wonder.

John continued down the hallway. One of the lights above him buzzed and flickered frantically, trying to stay alive, and the stagnant, oppressive air weighed him down as his footsteps shuffled. The whole aura of the hotel seemed to be trying to make him sad - or maybe it was scared - he wasn't quite -

Suddenly he stopped still. He didn't breathe for a moment.

With precise clarity, he focused his gaze on one door. It was a few doors down and to his right, but the pulling was so strong that he almost choked under the pressure. He gulped and gasped in the stiff air shallowly.

Okay. Alright.

So this was his room.

He wasn't has frightened as he thought he might be, but he approached the door with great caution anyways. No need to rush into things, especially something with such serious consequences as this might turn out to be.

He stood motionless in front of the door for a second, contemplating the number curiously.

_206_

That was curious. John wondered what it was supposed to mean. The number was engraved into the reddish-brown wood of the door with an embellish, its fake, peeling gold color only serving to make it more mysterious. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a second before he gripped the cool metal and turned, swiftly opening the door.

For a second, he didn't see anything but black. The room seemed like an empty canvas, but seemed to pulsate with some kind of dark energy. John looked around in confusion, gathering courage before stepping through the door frame into the pitch black interior.

Immediately he gasped at the raw amount of power he felt. He stumbled back but found the door behind him closed.

_John Watson._

John's eyes widened even more because he had just heard that voice in his head. Someone - or something - was speaking to him directly.

_What an interesting character you are._

John looked around wildly but found no source of the voice. The room was still void of anything except him and the door, seemingly suspended in an endless black.

"Who is this? What's going on?" His voice was higher-pitched and tremored a bit more than he liked, but he wasn't that afraid.

_My name is not of importance, but who I am matters more than anything you might yet know. I'm the one who put this hotel together. The one who made these rooms. _The thing's voice took on an edge, and its next words were almost aggressive - _I'm the one who can see into your soul, expose even your most guarded secrets, peer into your mind and declare you the coward that you are. I can drive even the most emotionless men to tears, including your very own friend, Sherlock __Holmes._

John laughed a little at this. "Well, you'll have a hard time with that one," he said, "I highly doubt I'll find Sherlock crying by the end of this -"

_Your presumptions almost offend me, Dr. Watson. In fact, I think I have already accomplished that goal. _There was a pause, John still shaking his head. _But that is of no matter. Who I care about at this moment is _you.

John furrowed his brow suspiciously. "Please. You're kidding me." There was no response. "Sherlock Holmes is here. You know. The great consulting detective, the most brilliant man anyone's ever met, the prodigy who can solve any mystery with a look? The person who can tell a pilot by his thumbs or whatever the heck he says? I'm just his sidekick. What are you concerned with _me_ about?" He found his voice tinging with bitterness, so he paused, returning his tone to normal. "Why are you caring about _me?"_

_Because I don't understand you._

John snorted. "And you can understand Sherlock?"

Quickly, sharply, _Holmes is see-through. There is only one thing in this world that he loves deeply enough to care about, and it is easy enough to exploit that. _

John cocked his head, curious, but banished the thought, too taken with this strange entity's game.

_But you... you are a mystery._

Another pause.

_You have seen war. You have seen death. You have been tortured._

Suddenly the canvas shifted, flitting like a movie going through fast-forward, countless scenes spreading out before him. John watched passively, feeling twinges here and there, as a slideshow of his life flew past. He saw Afghanistan, wounds and blood and men dying, saw himself get shot, watched himself be tortured - from being bullied as a child to more serious when Moriarty had gotten ahold of him (something he had still never, and would never tell Sherlock about) - and although he flinched here and there, none of these scenes filled him with fear.

_You have family members, but they are detached... perhaps a source of strife, but not of fear._

Harry. Pictures of Harry. Happy, then anxious, and disintegrating into alcoholism and anger. John bit his lip, but he was still not afraid.

HIs life continued to speed past him, too many sights to count, the entity's anger getting greater and greater -

- then he stopped.

_Ah._

Revelation.

_Ah!_

Victorious.

_I told you I could drive great men to tears, Dr. Watson. You did not believe me, but I will not disappoint._

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"

And suddenly John was back. The scene around him was gray and dark and sunless, and there was St. Barts, and there was Sherlock.

"Please, will you do this - for me?"

He heard himself speak, though his own mouth wasn't moving.

"Do what?"

"This phone call, it's... it's my note."

John knew these words. Had memorized them.

"That's what people do, don't they?"

This wasn't the first time.

"Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when what?"

And the words he had never wanted to hear again, not from that mouth -

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't -"

John closed his eyes quietly as Sherlock fell, heard himself screaming "Sherlock - _Sherlock!" _

The scene stopped. Put on pause.

_I don't understand. You're not visibly affected. Not in any way._

It was frustrated.

_This was your greatest fear! Put on play for you! Baring your soul to yourself!_

Without opening his eyes, John started to laugh.

"No, I don't think you understand. I don't think you understand at all." John opened his eyes and glared at whatever the blackness held.

"You can't show me my greatest fears here. Nobody can ever do that again." John turned his back, opening the door behind him. Before he stepped out, he looked back again.

"You can't show me my greatest fear," he said, his voice trembling only slightly, "Because I've already seen it before."

Then he stepped outside and shut the door.

Just as the door shut behind him with a soft _click,_ as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever appeared there, he heard a scream.

A heart-wrenching, gut-clenching scream coming from his right.

He whirled to see a dark form curled up against the wall, mumbling and sobbing, and his heart wrenched because the voice had not been lying - in some way, some inexplicable way, it had driven Sherlock Holmes to tears.

He rushed to his friend, who was crying aloud, "...I'm sorry - I'm so, so sorry -"

"Sherlock, dear God, what happened?" he asked, trying to pry Sherlock's arms from in front of his face. At first Sherlock resisted, but when he peeked up from his defensive curl, his eyes widened and without a second's pause he was throwing himself onto John.

Which was nice.

That was okay.

A few moments later, when John had finally gotten up to look in the room - Sherlock's room - what he saw there made him stop still. The words of the entity's voice echoed through his mind again.

_Holmes is see-through. _

_There is only one thing in this world that he loves deeply enough to care about, and it is easy enough to exploit that._

It was him.

He was looking at himself dying on the ground.

Sherlock was driven to hysterics because of him.

And in that moment all the pent-up feelings he had been holding inside for the past three years came pouring out and John knew that he was deeply, madly, incredibly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He moved back to sit next to his friend, taking a breath.

"So, it was your room."

Sherlock nodded shakily.

"...and in it, I died."

"You didn't just die, you were murdered, and I couldn't save you; I tried, but I couldn't, and - and then -" Sherlock's voice was trembling fiercely, and he was speaking so fast that he stuttered over words - "Y-you were dying and I couldn't save you, and you told me you hated me - you said I was a - a freak and you h-hated me and - I couldn't, John, I just couldn't bring myself to -"

There were more words passed after that, but the only thing John could really remember was the moment when he was fed up with waiting and closed the gap between them, and everything was good and wonderful and he knew everything would be fantastic.

His greatest fear had not been reality.

His greatest fear would never, ever be allowed to happen again.

Because he had believed in Sherlock Holmes, and now he was desperately in love with him.

**-oOo-**

When they had finally gotten out of the hotel - interestingly enough, when they walked out the front door, they turned to have found it completely gone - they had walked home in silence - although never without their hands leaving each other's. It was one of the more enjoyable trips he'd ever taken, John decided, although they did have to walk a couple miles to get anywhere near their home.

Eventually, Sherlock became curious. "So, you saw my - room," he said, pausing as if having to gather courage to even mention the cursed thing again. "But did you ever find yours?"

John didn't look at him in the eyes. "Yes," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Actually, I did - saw it just before yours."

John could practically feel the curiosity rolling off of Sherlock, but appreciated the fact that his friend _(no, wait, more than that now) _held back his curiosity for a total of two seconds.

"Well, it obviously didn't affect you that much, since you weren't as... visibly affected by it as I was," Sherlock mumbled, and now John could sense his embarrassment. He stopped walking, Sherlock stopping in confusion alongside him.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said softly, "I don't even want to hear you say that again." He took a steadying breath. "What I saw in my room changed me more than anything else I've ever seen. The only thing is..." He looked at Sherlock in the eyes, trying to convey everything he was trying to say in just the next sentence, "...I've seen it before."

Understanding dawned in Sherlock's eyes - understanding paired with guiltiness and sorrow and also a very generous amount of love. "...oh."

John laughed a little bit. "Yeah."

And this time it was Sherlock's turn to swoop down onto John, their lips locking in another kiss as the world around them faded into nothing.

**-oOo-**

_Bonus points if you can figure out what John's number has to do with it. It actually does hold meaning, though it's a bit obscure. I had to do some research to find it. Actually, if you can figure it out, I'll.. give you a cookie. Or write you a oneshot of a topic of your choice. Whichever you'd prefer. ;)_

_Thank you for reading. I'm quite proud of what I've done with this._

_Please review! It means so much to me!_

_Thank you for reading!_

_**~Phoenix**_


End file.
